


bits and bobs

by Dickbutt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Leftover Writing, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous one shots/drabbles/scraps leftover from my blog dickbutt-writes-again.
Relationships: Angela "Mercy" Ziegler/Reader, Genji Shimada/Reader, Hanzo Shimada/Reader, Implied Hana "D.Va" Song/Reader, Lúcio Correia dos Santos/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	1. Stabbed (Reader/Genji - old Whumptober prompt)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, long time no see. This is... honestly me going "huh I sure did write a lot that didn't make it to Ao3, could fix that?" because I kind of... fell out of liking Overwatch? I won't really go into it, but my reasons are my own, and I figured I'd leave a record somewhere that I didn't just... fall off the face of the planet?
> 
> I figure a lot, if not most of you, have seen almost all of these before, but hey, might as well have them all in one place, yeah?
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy, whether you're still vibing with Overwatch or not.
> 
> Warnings for this chaper: Blood, dissociation/derealization, mind control, severe injury.

Genji comes back to awareness in pieces, then in a sudden, jarring lurch - his dragon frantic inside of him, the chaos of battle around him, his blade heavy, caught.

In the span of minutes–in _seconds–_ Genji’s world becomes a nightmare.

You didn’t even scream.

You are alive, conscious somehow, your face flushed and flecked with red as every heaving breath rattles your whole body like you’re about to shake into pieces. He doesn’t want to look down, not even a glance, but his eyes betray him with every subtle flick trying desperately to gather information on the last several minutes that he’s lost, and every ugly feeling he’s ever known pales in the face of the thing curling – writhing – inside of him.

Your hand rests firmly below the blade, as though to stop it from piercing you any further – as though it weren’t protruding grotesquely from your back. Your eyes meet his through his helm, focused and all-too-aware.

A cry of terror flees from him, and he jerks back reflexively, though you are pulled with him with a pained moan – connected as you are.

_He doesn’t remember doing this. It isn’t real._

The words that leave his mouth don’t register, but they’re clearly the wrong thing to say – your head shakes minutely, jaw locked open, eyes glossy with unshed tears. He is deaf – lost to everything but the weight of the sword, and the need to _toss it away._

Dragonblade slides free – and he can feel every inch of it as it tears through you.

You shout once, and then your teeth snap together audibly, trapping the majority of the sound within. Genji, too, is mute – though he with horror. Blood comes seeping through your fingers like a dam broken, and he goes with you to the ground at the collapse of your legs.

There is, at last, a commotion.

Yelling, and jostling about, though he is immovable from the stone of grief he has become. There is screaming – some at him, he is certain, something he’s intimately familiar with – of blame, of weakness, and of fear.

_If Talon could bend Genji’s steel will, how were any of them safe?_

He cannot answer to any of them – he is beholden only to you.

You are strong, and it is _killing_ him, your firm expression a thousand times worse than if you had been visibly anguished, or worse yet, infuriated. And surely this inadvertent betrayal warranted it, that he finds himself the object of your ire – that you come out of this _hating_ him.

Your blood-slickened hands fail to find purchase on his armor, and leave streaks of his shame in their wake. He is sick with it.

“Not your fault,” you gasp. “Not your fault. Not your fault….”

His head bows further with every croak of your mantra – _how can it not be? How is it not? -_ and if he tries hard enough could he sink through the earth?

“Not... your fault… not your...”


	2. Bloody Hands (Reader/Mercy - another whumptober prompt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Blood, obsessive/anxious thought patterns, mentions of surgery/injury.

Angela looks at her hands and her mind wanders off to a world where she had been just a few seconds too slow.

_Or been off base. Or the shrapnel had torn your_ _aorta. Or if they had waited to call her._

_Or. Or. Or._

Angela looks at her hands, skin rubbed raw and pink from scrubbing and the scalding water, but she still sees them red, still tacky in her mind from blood that had never touched them through the gloves, stickler for procedure and regulations as she was.

…In every way but one, at least.

Her tools, cleaned and sanitized, sit in orderly rows in their respective places. Everything is as it should be, pristine and ready for use, like you’d never been there and the scene that haunted her mind was nothing more than a fleeting thought.

_In the back of her mind, she still sees you bleeding out, and your eyes are open wide, and you are blaming her and and and and_

She shakes it off with a violent toss of her head, runs the sink another time in the hopes she can wash the feelings away.

But she can’t avoid you forever.

The room is silent ~~_like death_~~ _–_ ****but no, her monitors beep out the rhythm of your life, still steady, still present, even as you were held under by the anesthesia. _Do you dream?_ You breaths are deep and even, and artificial and a single glitch of machinery could end -

**Stop.**

She takes a deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth, but it hardly does anything to calm her racing mind. Angela looks at her hands and lets the tears fall freely. Fear had no place in the OR, but now that all was done, she had all-too-much time to ruminate on the worst – a peril of being a bit too attached to a patient, she supposes.

Dangerous.

But entirely worth the risk.

And as she looks down at your sleeping face – dark bruises beneath your eyes to match her own – her heart clenches, and she is thankful that she is nothing less than Doctor Angela Ziegler; that there was never any room for doubt.

She shrugs off her coat to hang it off the back of the chair, and settles in – to monitor, to wait, to remain at your side.

Her hand finds yours – and squeezes.


	3. Insomnia (Implied Reader/D.Va - more whumptober)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings! D.Va/Reader if you squint and if you squint harder you might even see some tiny background McHanzo.

Sleepless nights weren’t an uncommon thing around base, and though it hadn’t happened often to yourself yet, you didn’t feel particularly concerned (although frustrated over your inability to just fucking _sleep_ _)._ But once your restless tossing and turning had reached hour four, you lurched upright with a groan, your hands scrubbing over your face. In the moments you sat angrily in the dark of your room, you considered flopping over and giving it a fifth-sixth-seventh attempt, but almost mindlessly, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.

You didn’t have a single clue as to what you were doing. A headache had begun to form at the back of your skull and your limbs felt leaden. You mumbled out a command to turn your lights on – low, of course – and pondered your choices as you half-blind sought out a pair of pants.

Angela usually kept some form of sleep aid in the medbay, but you didn’t want to bother her, on the off-chance that she’d actually managed to get some rest, fellow insomniac that she was. She also wouldn’t appreciate you rifling through her supplies, and she’d reprimanded the others enough times for your to know better. The kitchen was also an option, and more often than not there would be somebody else having a late night drink or snack, but your stomach protested the idea of ingesting anything heavier than water.

Your bed called to you again, and you just about gave in.

…Eh. Maybe a walk around base would be enough to get you settled.

Blanket draped around your shoulders, you trundled out of your quarters and into the long, empty hallways of the watchpoint, in aimless search of respite.

Gibraltar was a pretty big base for the so, so few of you that lived there, whether transitory or permanent. The long halls filled with shadows could have been much more daunting for anyone with a more paranoid mind than yours, and many nights you did find yourself unsettled by their emptiness, but tonight you were too tired.

The lights of the training area were on, casting florescent streaks across the hallway where you passed. You stepped in for a moment and spotted McCree and Hanzo, practically the resident ghosts of the watchpoint, for how often they were awake so late into the night and early morning. You briefly debated joining them, as one or the other was usually good for a drink and some talk, but at the familiar _crack_ of Peacekeeper, your head throbbed behind your eyes and you instead chose to keep moving.

You reconsidered the kitchen, for nothing else but to stare vacantly into the refrigerator for five minutes and chug down a glass of water. But a glance from the doorway saw Ana and Morrison huddled together over a pair of mugs, speaking in hushed tones that you couldn’t parse, and a hand on the former Strike Commander’s back. It was a little too personal, and not wanting to disturb them, you backed out as quietly as you could.

You walked for a bit longer, wondering if the garden would be a good place to pass time, despite the muggy summer heat, when you’re drawn toward the sound of talking, and the bluish glow of a screen coming from the common room.

Hana sat cross-legged on the couch, empty cans and snack packages strewn on the table and floor around her, the game she was playing silent, or rather, the audio filtered through a headset. With how quiet she was, you doubted she was streaming, but it still could have been a possibility knowing her.

She remained focused on the game, even as you ventured into her range of vision, though out of the way of the screen, as was only polite. You plopped down beside her, settling into your blanket cocoon, and she hardly glanced in your direction. It was fine, you weren’t here to talk anyway – just being near somebody else was enough, and you sat back to watch her play.

You recognized the game, but you couldn’t for the life of you recall the name of it, especially sleep-deprived as you were. She looked like she was running on auto-pilot, her motions practiced and mechanical and near-perfect; it was almost mesmerizing to watch. Occasionally, she would speak, but not to you – answering the question of whether or not she was streaming – her voice low, and almost soothing.

“…yeah, they’re my teammate… all of us keep odd hours, haha… I’m sure they wouldn’t want to…”

Your head began to nod, and if you were even a smidgen more cognizant, you’d have internally cheered at finally, _finally_ achieving some level of rest. Unfortunately, at some point, you must have slumped into Hana’s shoulder, and were you not so desperate to settle into sleep, you’d move away and apologize. But as it was, she was hardly phased, and continued playing and quietly answering her viewers’ questions. Close as you were, you could hear the game’s audio filtering through her headset, but it wasn’t enough to stop you from drifting off.

You woke up on the couch alone, less rested than you would have liked, but somehow still satisfied.


	4. "ditchfic" (Genji/Reader - misc drabble)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings again! But according to the original notes I wrote this after I fell in a ditch walking to work lmao

You volunteer yourself for the first night watch of the stakeout. Genji leaps up after that and also volunteers himself, asserting that in the heart of Deadlock territory, they can’t be _too_ careful, and Morrison agrees, assigning you both to wide, looping patrols around the perimeter. He also -unfortunately – sees right through Genji’s plan to be alone with you for a while, and your assigned paths cross very seldom, much to his disappointment. Still, he entertains himself with talking with you over a private comm channel.

The night is pleasantly cool compared to the heat of the day, and you enjoy making a game of spotting the sparse wildlife that made their homes in the desert. It makes for an overall pleasant, if unexciting, patrol.

“If this is all that’s gonna happen, this mission’s going to be a piece of ca- _ **AH**_!!”

For a tense instant, Genji feels his heart stop.

“What’s wrong? Have you been spotted?” Instead of waiting for a response, he jumps into motion. “I am on my way.”

You are silent for another long, painful moment, in which he imagines you at the enemy’s mercy, and he cannot run fast enough. He isn’t at ease until he hears your voice mumble over the comm.

“…I fell in a ditch.”

The normally poised ninja almost falls over his feet in surprise of the statement. He allows himself a quiet, poorly hidden chuckle – which will no doubt raise your ire later – before he turns his thoughts toward that which is more important.

“Are you injured?”

He moves at a more reasonable pace toward your location as he speaks.

“Just my pride.” And then a quiet hiss of pain comes through clenched teeth. “…And my knees.”

He rounds the bend in time to see you stumbling to your feet, your face a twisted grimace of displeasure. Through the enhanced vision granted to him by his visor, he can see the layer of dirt and dust coating you even in the darkness. His hand goes to your back, assisting you away from the aforementioned ditch, a long furrow running parallel to the dilapidated road. He wonders how you missed it.

You are still quiet in his arms.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” he asks.

“Sore,” you admit with a self-deprecating laugh. “Nothing five minutes under a biotic emitter can’t fix.”

“Well, our shift is nearly over. I am sure they wouldn’t mind us turning in a few minutes early.”

You give him a soft hum in reply, as you take full advantage of his cyborg strength to lean your weight against him. His hands tighten minutely against you.

“Let’s take the long way back,” you murmur.

He agrees.


	5. a labor of love (Mercy/Reader - Ko-fi fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Would I get in trouble for mentioning that this was a, uh, com-mis-sion? In any case, wrote this for the-nerd-writer on tumblr.

Angela reached blindly for her coffee cup, eyes half-focused on the monitor before her. She grimaced as she took a sip, then chanced a look toward the clock; it had long gone cold while she worked into the night. She placed it aside and shook her head. Just a bit longer and she’d be done anyway, she didn’t need any more coffee if she were to get any sleep that night.

After the faintest of knocks her clinic door slid open, and while her first instinct was to tell off whoever had just waltzed in – her office hours were long over, _thank you very much_ – she brightened up just the slightest when she saw you standing in the doorway. She shook her head and turned back to her work, now just a little bit more determined to finish. Sluggish footsteps crossed the room towards her, and you settled into the chair across from her with an audible _creak._

“You know you didn’t have to wait up for me, _herzli,_ ” she said, with a fond smile gracing her lips. “Just a bit more and I’ll be done.”

But when she glanced up to meet your eyes, her expression dimmed. Work forgotten, she stood and crossed over to the side of the desk where you sat, eyes empty and shadowed, beyond simple physical exhaustion. She slid your hand into both of hers and squeezed, prompting a strong squeeze back. She could see the strain in your jaw as you clenched your teeth, and knew that her work could wait – you were immeasurably more important.

“What do you need?” she murmured, running a thumb over the back of your hand in soothing strokes.

“You,” came your soft reply, and a pressure eased from her heart.

She knew the thoughts that plagued you, the pratfalls of your mind that exhausted you more than they ever aught to, and certainly more often than you deserved. She knew the kind of effort you went through to keep yourself going, and that she was enough to assuage your suffering was an incredibly flattering thought.

“Come then, love.” She pulled you to your feet, then slid her arms around your back as soon as you were standing. “Let’s get some rest.”

You nodded wearily, silent, your mind still working itself in circles of suffering. She didn’t have any qualms about leaving the medbay behind, the impersonal cots and sterile scent nowhere near the kind of comfort she thought you needed. The walk to her own room wasn’t that far, but she kept in physical contact with you the entire time, pressed warm against your side. The two of you practically shared quarters, anyway, and she wasn’t entirely certain that the state of your room – unknown to her as it was – would be soothing.

She kept the lights dim as she went with you through the motions of preparing for rest, coaxing you into a shower and a clean set of comfortable clothing. The pattern was calming in its familiarity, for her as well. She knew you would – and had often – done the same for her, helping her out of stressful work-induced fits, reminding her to eat and take care of herself, and to just _relax._ It was a labor of love.

You collapsed boneless into her bed once all was done, already looking less haggard, though exhaustion still clung to your eyes. She slid in alongside you, arms curling possessively – protectively – around your weary form. Her nails scratched at your scalp in soothing patterns and you groaned, melting into the mattress.

“You’re wonderful, Angela…”

“As are you, _herzli_.”

She tucked herself under your chin, her hands at your back to continue rubbing patterns into the skin. The whole while you were falling asleep, she murmured soft endearments until she too drifted off, happy and comfortable, and she could only hope you were as well. It was the least she could do.


	6. miss you terribly (Hanzo/Reader - ko-fi fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fic for ko-fi I guess lol. Written for krenee1drful on tumblr. 
> 
> Warning for Hanzo's terrible coping mechanisms.

Hanzo took the news well, all things considered. Or, at least, well by their ill-conceived metrics.

There was no screaming, no threats or denials, just a quiet acceptance, when they expected the message to be received with Hanzo’s infamous ire.

But Hanzo’s grief was private – a quiet storm. One that demanded no witnesses. 

It wasn’t as though the others were blind to this, however. They surmised what was happening behind closed doors by the way he carried himself, by the way he undertook his training with a renewed ferocity, by the vanishing bottles of alcohol from the Watchpoint kitchen. At any questioning, he asserted he was alright, that loss was an expected outcome in such an undertaking and in spite of all things, he would not admit out loud that he _missed_ you.

Missed you so deeply that his chest ached, hollow, in the space that you once occupied.

But he would suffer in silence. As he was meant to.

He was a cursed man, and what little happiness he had found with you was never meant to last, though he never thought that it would end with your untimely demise. He hadn’t even found out until a week afterward, due to being on his own mission, and the risks that such news would potentially cause. He remembered with painful fondness the way you wished him well before your tandem departure to opposite sides of the globe, the subtle swell of excitement on the return trip at the thought of seeing you and –

It didn’t matter. Not anymore, at least.

Whatever had been would exist only in his memories, remnants of what he should never have allowed himself to have.

It was only when his so-called well wishers became more insistent did he lash out.

Genji offered, not for the first time, for him to sit in on a meditation session with him and his Omnic master, to help him come to terms with your loss. The screaming match with his brother – that he belatedly realized may have been one sided – escalated into a meeting with Winston in his office, barring him from missions for the indefinite future. He stormed off to his quarters after leaving a sizable dent in the wall.

What did they want from him? Was he not permitted to grieve in his own manner?

It was insulting, the way he was treated like something damaged. It wasn’t as though he were performing less than expected. By Athena’s data, his scores in training simulations were up to par, if not better than usual, and the few missions he had been sent on in recent months were successes. He did team exercises, assisted others with their training, showed up to dinner and “team bonding” nights at regular intervals. And if he was quieter than normal, it shouldn’t have mattered when he was a man of few words in the first place.

He was _fine._ And the sooner the others would come to understand it, the sooner they could all move forward.

In the dark of his room, he took another long pull from the neck of the bottle and coughed – it was likely some swill of McCree’s, but he wasn’t picky given that the next supply run wasn’t for another week. Barred from missions and training, there wasn’t much else to do on base late at night but languish, and restlessness churned under his skin.

His door slid open suddenly, causing him to nearly choke on another mouthful of liquor. He snarled at the intruder, words that almost sounded like _Get out_ if it weren’t for the burning of his throat from the pilfered alcohol. But they were not deterred, and stepped into the room without flicking on his light, hardly more than a shadow. He opened his mouth again, to tell them off more soundly, when they bodily fell into him with a murmur of his name.

He shouted for Athena to turn the lights on, heart pounding.

The bandages covering you barely registered over the visceral sensation of holding you in his arms. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until you were soothing him, hands smoothing over his back in long, repetitive strokes. He could only hold you tighter in response, desperate to believe that it wasn’t the product of wishful thinking and long-suffering despair. He must have said as much out loud, or something of the like, based on the words that finally became clear to him.

“I’m here,” you murmured hoarsely. “I’m home. I’m home.”

His eyes stung, but he did not cry, only buried his face into your shoulder to muffle his relieved sob.

“ _You’re home.”_


	7. Secret Santa Fic (Lucio/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an Overwatch Secret Santa event in 2018 - pretty much the last finished piece of writing I ever did for Overwatch orz. Written for imagine-this-overwatch on Tumblr. 
> 
> Warning: Uh, illness? I don't know, man.

From the outset of your relationship, you knew that being with Lúcio would involve certain concessions. Given that he was an activist, an international superstar, and an agent of the newly reformed Overwatch, you knew you wouldn’t be able to have as much of his time as you wished you could. But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less, even if the two of you always worked hard to ensure that whatever time you were able to spend together was special. **  
**

You spent the last couple weeks of his most recent tour counting down the days until he’d be back on base and you would both be free to spend time together – even if just for a little while, until your work took you in different directions again. Your conversations always focused on plans for what you would do once you were reunited, peppered with I miss you’s and all manner of endearments until he was inevitably dragged away by the next person who needed him.

And two days before he was due back home, you woke with an ominous tickle in your throat.

“No,” you groaned out. “No no no no no…!”

You shortly found yourself in the kitchen chugging down the last of the orange juice, with a note of promise to whoever had bought it to replace it on the next supply run. You then ran toward the infirmary – intent on finding some cold medicine or anything that could hold off whatever illness was brewing inside of you – but found the door locked.

“Due to several accounts of missing inventory,” Athena chimed in, after your numerous attempts to open the door. “Doctor Ziegler’s office is to remain closed while she is off-base, except in cases of medical emergency.”

“Athena, I cannot get sick right now, I just need something to get me through the next couple of days, and that’s all! Please!”

“…Very well, I will contact Doctor Ziegler.”

Your expression soured, but it was better than nothing.

“Thank you.”

Hardly a minute passed before Athena spoke again.

“Doctor Ziegler recommends you get plenty of rest and stay hydrated, and reminds you that she will be back tomorrow, at which time she will see about treating your… condition.”

With an exasperated growl, you stormed down to the gym, determined that if you couldn’t medicate it, you could at least sweat it out. You worked out until your limbs turned leaden, and collapsed into a sweaty, dreamless sleep back in your room.

That night, when Lúcio called, you had to poorly hide a sudden coughing fit in the crook of your arm. Once your breathing had stabilized, you heard his concerned voice calling to you.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Just, uh, water went down the wrong way! Haha…”

Which he at least couldn’t refute because you’d had the foresight to opt out of a video call, considering your circumstance.

“Can’t wait to see you.”

“Me neither.” You swallowed against the literal ache in your throat. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too. But, hey! One more night, and I’ll be right there with you.”

Unfortunately, once tomorrow came, you found yourself clinging to your toilet bowl for dear life, attempting to get Athena’s attention in between heaves. Luckily - or about the only lucky thing you even had going for you - Athena was keyed in to all agents vital signs, and soon enough, Angela came sweeping into your room, recently returned to base.

“What happened to you?”

You stared at her from your slumped position on the floor with thinly veiled irritation, face blotchy and sweat-drenched, and upon opening your mouth all that would emerge was a strained, squeaky croak.

“…Oh dear.”

  
Once she had seen about treating any of your immediate issues, she condemned you to bed rest and fluids until you had rode out whatever infection was plaguing you. You spent an indeterminate amount of time in a feverish, half-conscious haze, still disoriented by the time you came mostly-to at the sound of someone requesting entrance to your room.

Your hopes that the Lúcio standing in your doorway was a dehydration induced hallucination were dashed when he hesitantly stepped into the room.

“Hey, how you feeling? Ange told me what was up and I rushed back as soon as I -”

“No!” you managed to shout, but it launched you straight into a series of hoarse coughs, during which Lúcio made his way to your side, perched delicately at the edge of your bed.

“Listen, if you’re worried about getting me sick, she already said you weren’t contagious anymore.”

“It’s not -” Your eyes stung, unsure if it was from strain or from disappointment, as you fought with your own body to speak. “What about… the plan?”

“Oh.” For a moment, he sounded as disappointed as you felt, but he immediately brightened back up and gave you a smile. “Don’t even worry about it, we can always reschedule.”

“But you were… really looking forward to this,” you croaked, eyes watering again, though you were certain tears were actually involved this time.

“Baby, I look forward to seeing you.” He began to rub comforting circles into your leg. “Even if you’re like this. The plans we make aren’t nearly as important as that.”

He – bravely – leaned in to kiss your forehead.

“We’ve got all the time in the world for fancy dates later on. Right now, let’s focus on getting you better.”

It was definitely tears this time. You sniffled loudly, and on reflex Lúcio passed you a tissue from your side table.

“…I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“…Think you can… throw together a sexy nurse outfit before I make a full recovery?”

He laughed, tossing his hair over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure I can work something out.”


End file.
